


children of the bad revolution

by julietcapulet



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Asylum
Genre: Bloodplay, Dubious Consent, F/F, Light Bondage, Mild S&M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Painplay, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julietcapulet/pseuds/julietcapulet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe the darkness in you aligns perfectly with the darkness in her, and that perfect symmetry of wickedness is the only honest thing in this godforsaken place.</p><p>(Mary Eunice discovers Lana has a kink and exploits it.)</p><p>Part I of "run in the shadows."</p>
            </blockquote>





	children of the bad revolution

**Author's Note:**

> **Title** : children of the bad revolution  
>  **Fandom** : American Horror Story: Asylum.  
>  **Rating** : Explicit.  
>  **Pairing(s)** : Lana/Mary Eunice.  
>  **Word Count** : 3726.  
>  **Warning(s)** : Bloodplay, orgasm denial, dubcon, light bondage, painplay, whipping, mild s&m.

Maybe you don’t want to admit it, but you’re fascinated by Lana Winters.

There’s something dark in her, something you sensed the second you met her, something that compels the darkness in _you_ , something that makes it stronger.

“You wanted to see me,” she says, voice soft against the clank of the door behind her after the security guards have heeded your request and left the two of you alone.

“Yes,” you say, cigarette hanging out of your mouth as you take a lazy drag. “Take a seat, Miss Winters.” You pretend that you’re poring over some important paperwork when really you’re taking this precious time to absorb Lana’s essence, chew on some of her memories and fears and sensory impulses, decide what brand of torture you’re going to expose her to today because, well, you’re _bored_ and she’s an easy target (despite what she might think). 

The way she looks at you, it’s almost like she knows. But she’s not that smart, you remind yourself, as you put out your cigarette. No one’s smarter than you.

“Well?” she presses, growing impatient as she perches neatly on the edge of the chair opposite your desk, and you, careless little thing that you are, _laugh_. That gives her a start. Fear clouds her eyes despite her best efforts to stave it off and you roll your eyes because, _easy_ , just like you said (you’re always right).

“One of the guards found a cucumber in your room this morning, Lana,” you lie, eyes glittering as you revel in the sight of the panic on her face. “Naughty, naughty girl.” 

She scoffs, but there’s a slight tremor in her voice that only you can hear, and it bespeaks her trepidation. “That’s a lie,” she says, boldly, and of course you know it’s a lie but it’s so much more fun to punish her for something she _didn’t_ do, isn’t it?

“You’re a sinner, Lana Winters, and I know what kind. I know what you are,” you say, ignoring her cry of avowals to the contrary. “I know everything.” You pause, raking your eyes over her form. “I know how to please you.”

Bless her heart, she’s trembling.

“I know what you like,” you continue, rising from Jude’s chair. You step forward, closer to her, and her eyes are stuck on you with a mix of horror and curiosity. Your hand ghosts over her cheek and she’s transfixed, unable to move, unable to blink, unable to register your advances as you skirt lower and draw your fingernail across her clavicle, exposed by the flimsy patient’s gown. “Wanna see?” 

She swallows, rage boiling beneath her chest (rage, and a little something _else_ , you note, smugly). “ _Don’t_ ,” she bites, and you feign offense, raising a delicate white hand to your delicate rosebud mouth. 

“Don’t be coy with me, Lana.” Your voice, with measured vitriol, squirms into her ears. You lean forward and your breath swirls over the shell of her ear in a warm gust, as you whisper, “How long has it been?” She shifts uncomfortably in her chair. You dart your tongue over her earlobe (it tastes of sweat and industrial soap, but you relish it anyway because you can still taste the sinner underneath). “We all know you’re _insatiable_. Isn’t that what Miss Peyser used to say? After writhing around on top of you for hours with her face between your legs?” 

Lana shivers, whirls around to face you. She wants to strike but she can’t––it isn’t worth it. She knows that. You know that. She is afraid of you. _She should be_.

“She didn’t know how to please you. She never did, did she?” You grin, bite down on your lower lip. “But with _me_ ,” you begin, sliding your veil off, “you won’t _have_ to finish yourself anymore. Wouldn’t you like that, Lana?” 

“Get _away_ from me,” she seethes, but her heart is beating so rapidly that you take that as all the encouragement you need.

“Have you ever had a lover fully satisfy you?” As you run your fingers through her tousled brown hair, she looks at you, unflinchingly. “No, you haven’t,” you cluck, answering for her, because you _know_ everything, anyway, you just want the fun of hearing her say it.

“What do you want from me?” It’s broken and pitiful and pathetic and _delicious_ , music to your ears.

“Oh, I don’t want anything from you,” you hum, popping down suddenly on her lap. “I want _you_.” She’s cowing underneath you and yet there’s a distinct warmth radiating from between her legs that she just can’t _help_ , poor sodomite thing that she is. For good measure, you reach your hand forward and run your thumb over her chapped lips, face hovering just inches from hers. “Can I tell you a secret? Just between us girls?” You say it almost a little too giddily, because she jumps, and your hand becomes a claw around her wrist as she struggles to get out from beneath you. “I can see inside your head.” Your voice is low and gruff against her face, and she’s too afraid to blink, even though she’s still wriggling around as if, somehow, she can shatter your iron grip. “And I think you’re going to enjoy this _almost_ as much as I am. Now,” you conclude, flicking a wrist toward the door so that it bolts shut, “ _kiss me_.” 

She stops moving, suddenly, defiance rising in her eyes, and, quite without prelude, she spits in your face. You smirk and lick the projected saliva off your lips. “Cute,” you say, as her features melt in disgust. “But I bet you can do better than that. Let me show you.” You sweep forward and capture her lips with your own, sliding your tongue between her teeth without waiting for an invitation. She fidgets, but after a few seconds she’s given up battling herself and shyly finds your tongue with her own. The air crackles around you as Lana’s hands weave up to knot in your unbridled hair, and by the time you withdraw from her mouth she’s gasping for air with red, swollen lips. “Better,” you say, breathlessly, “but not good enough.”

Lana’s rage is what fuels her arousal and you’re feeding off of it like ambrosia because _Christ_ her hatred is mouth-watering and you can’t get enough. “Get up,” you instruct, standing off her with shaking human legs (somewhere from within you a little girl is screaming, but you ignore her despite her violent protestations). Lana obeys, hands fisted at her sides as she rises to her feet, a thin sheen of sweat dampening her body. You step forward and put one hand on each of her shoulders, tearing her dress down the middle with an effortless grace (one which both puzzles, relieves, and frightens her). At the sight of her bare flesh you lick your lips, a primal need for dominance surging harshly in your gut. Inspired by this, you swipe your papers off the desk with a loud clatter to the floor and shove Lana backward so that she stumbles onto the cold wooden surface, quivering body sprawled out haphazardly beneath you––all yours for the taking, you congratulate yourself, with an inward leer. Her underwear, oversized and dirty, only serves to further incite your appetite, and you lean forward to tear them off and discard them somewhere on the other end of the room. She clamps her legs together timidly, and you mutter a little, “ _Aww_ ,” before taking a step back to open Jude’s notorious whip cabinet and pull out one of the larger ones. Lana watches you, knowingly, and slowly her knees fall apart. 

“You want _this_ , don’t you?” you ask, knowing the answer. “You were too afraid to tell Wendy. Thought she’d call you a freak.” Tears are collecting in Lana’s eyes but she nods and blinks them away resolutely. “Well…” you start, dragging the edge of the whip across Lana’s exposed abdomen, “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

You can sense the whimper building in Lana’s throat before she even has the chance to let it escape.

“Go on,” you encourage, patting her lightly on the hip, “turn over.” 

She obliges, and when she’s fully on her stomach you reach forward and take a handful of her oily, unkempt hair and pull it roughly. She makes a guttural noise somewhere between pleasure and pain and curls her toes, anticipating more. You drag the whip teasingly across her bare buttocks and watch with satisfaction as her skin prickles with a chill that has nothing to do with the tepid air in the room. 

“Why are you doing this?” she asks, a quiver in her hushed voice. You assume she already knows the answer. She saw you lock the door from across the room. She knows what you are. What you’re capable of. And she wants it. She wants _you_. Because maybe the darkness in you aligns perfectly with the darkness in her, and that perfect symmetry of wickedness is the only honest thing in this godforsaken place.

“You’re not like the others,” you say, withdrawing the whip from her flesh. “Well, for starters, you’re not insane.” _Crack_. You bring the whip down hard on her skin and Lana stifles a cry. “You’re smarter than them.” _Crack_. Moan. “And you interest me.” _Crack_. Lana’s panting now in spite of herself. Changing the subject, you add, flippantly, “Gotta make this look convincing,” as you crack the whip again. “They sent you here to be punished, not rewarded. Twenty lashes, that’s what you get. No more, no less.” _Crack_. “We want to make sure you learn your lesson.” _Crack_. 

You reach down between her legs with your free hand and wrest your fingers to her core, stroking it with deliberate coyness to conflict with the harshness of the lashes you’re giving her with your other hand. _Crack_. She inhales sharply at the dual sensation and crumbles into your hand, rocking her hips forward so as to give you better purchase. But as soon as you sense how badly she wants release, you withdraw your hand, and she is left clamoring for air with an insatiable heat stifling her breath. _Crack_. 

Oh, come on. You’re the _devil_. You never play fair.

You dip your hand over one of her sores, oozing with blood, and lick it off your finger. She bites her lip and watches you with darkened eyes, perhaps uncertain that what she’s seeing, what she’s feeling, what she’s experiencing, is reality. _Crack_. “How many lashes is that?” you ask, splaying a hand across the small of her back to steady her.

“Eight,” she grates out, with bated breath. 

Before she has the chance to collect herself, you flick your wrist and slam her against the wall, freezing her body with her limbs outstretched, and she gasps loudly at the impact of the cold wall against her skin and the fresh wounds on her backside.

“So it’s true,” she says, breathlessly, when she finds her voice, wincing as her body shudders against your iron grasp. “You’re not Mary Eunice.” 

“She likes it here,” you deflect, eyes flashing yellow as her blood tingles across your tongue. “Anyway, she didn’t put up much of a fight. Poor girl, I think she _needed_ me.” You cast the whip to the side and run your fingers up Lana’s sides, pausing over her chest to twirl a nail across her nipple, which hardens under your ministrations. “Just like _you_ need me,” you add, and Lana lets out a measured breath. You lean forward and press your mouth against her breast, teeth dragging over her nipple, and she moans loudly, her head falling back against the wall. “You like that, huh?” you notice, sucking gently. You can feel the anxious throb between Lana’s legs and you stroke your hand over her core once, twice, three times, until she’s whimpering and breathing in heaves. You press a finger inside her and she gyrates despite your tight grip on her, keening in waves as you move back and forth at a gingerly pace––just enough to work her up but not enough to sate her.

“Please,” she mewls, head dropping forward. “ _Please_.” 

But instead you remove your hand and toss her back onto the table with a loud thud, flipping her over onto her stomach with a quick gesture of your hand. She sighs in frustrated agony but quiets herself when she hears you take up the whip again. “Good girl,” you say, acknowledging her silence. Then, _crack_. “Count for me?”

“Nine,” she moans, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Tell me, how long have you wanted to try this?” you ask. _Crack_.

“Ten,” she groans, then answers, obliquely, “It doesn’t matter.”

“There’s nothing wrong with mixing a little pleasure and pain, Lana,” you assure her. _Crack_.

“Eleven.”

“Though perhaps this is more pain than you bargained for.” _Crack_.

“Twelve.”

“But that’s who I am, always giving that little bit _extra_.” _Crack_.

“Thirteen.”

You lean forward and swipe your tongue across one of the fresh welts, her blood tangy and bitter on your mouth. “Oh, you are just _delicious_ ,” you tell her. “Let’s see what the rest of you tastes like.” 

Lana rolls over onto her back and breathes shakily, face stained with half-drying tears. You crouch over her pelvis and run your tongue over your lips, still reddened by her blood, and dip your face closer to her center, but not close enough to touch. Her hands are clawed on either side of the desk, knuckles white, body quaking with ill-concealed need. 

This is your favorite part of humanity. Such a proud and noble race, reduced to shambles at the gentlest suggestion of a touch. 

You dart your tongue over the dampness between her legs and she’s nearly undone, holding her breath as you slide your tongue inside her and clamp your nails down, hard, into the softness of her inner thighs. She growls, muscles tightening, and bravely moves her hands to your head, applying an eager pressure to encourage you to go deeper. But as soon as she indicates that she needs you, you back away, leaving her a tangled mess of heated nerves and want. 

“Now be a dear and turn over,” you order her, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. She does so with a snivel, and you grab the whip once more. “I hope this is living up to your expectations.” _Crack_. “Don’t forget to count.” _Crack_.

“Fifteen.”

“Hmm,” you mumble to yourself, and without precedent set the whip beside Lana. You tear open the back of your dress and slide out of it easily, Jude’s red slip hanging off your disheveled frame. “Wanna do me now?” you ask, stepping out of the slip. You don’t really relish the idea of assigning Lana the power, if even for a moment, but you’re interested to see how she takes the bait. “Come on, Lana,” you goad, offering her the whip, “you know you want to see what it’s like.”

Lana stiffly rises from the desk and takes the proffered whip tremulously in her hands. You smile brightly at her and lean over the back of the desk, spreading your legs and waiting for her to strike, and, oh, this ought to be highly entertaining. When she finally does crack the whip, it’s weak, and you can’t help but laugh (you don’t feel pain, anyway). “I hardly think that’s the best you can do,” you say, craning your neck around to look at her. “Again, please.”

She hits you again, this time more deliberately, but it still is quite lackluster and you reward her efforts with a pained sigh. “Make me _bleed_ , Lana.”

With a huff, she screws her face with determination and hits you again, harder, and you feel the skin on your backside break. “Good,” you say, “Now lick it.”

Lana sniffs and shakes her head, even though your back is turned. “No, I––I can’t do that,” she rasps. “I don’t want to do that.”

“Oh, yes you do,” you insist, rolling your eyes. “Besides, it’s only fair.” When she remains rigid, you sigh, stand up, reach down behind you, and wipe some of the blood onto your hands. “Trust me,” you say, poking a bloody finger into her mouth, “I taste _good_.”

Lana closes her eyes and sucks gently at your finger, swallowing the iron taste greedily. She closes her eyes and loses herself, and you wonder how far you can push the darkness inside her before it consumes her entirely. 

Her eyes are still closed when you push her back onto the desk and mount her, slotting your legs through hers. She gasps as you thrust forward against her, the wetness between her legs melding with yours, and you grind your hips over her, pinning her arms down on the table as you lean forward to nip at her earlobe. She lets out a string of moans set off by the friction of your bodies and you know she’s close but you won’t let her find release, not yet. Her thrusts against you get more rapid and frantic, her moans soaring into higher pitches, and she’s just about to explode when you clamber off of her and cackle as she whines, body in spasms at your sudden absence. Desperately, she slides her hand between her own legs and struggles to find completion, but you cluck your tongue and slap her hand away. “Not yet,” you say, and flip her over. _Crack_.

“Sixteen,” she sobs, not forgetting her promise to count, even though you know her head is clouded over by lust. 

_Crack_.

“Seventeen.”

You grab a fistful of her hair. _Crack_.

“Eighteen.”

And she snaps. She whirls around, knocks the whip out of your hand, and crashes your lips together, tumbling the both of you down to the ground, where she climbs on top of you and violently begins thrusting against your pelvis. “That’s more like it,” you pant, digging your nails into her hips. “That’s the Lana Winters I see inside your soul.” You watch the darkness bloom inside of her and grin as she tightens, body as taut as a bowstring, nearing climax. You don’t need to look at her face to know this is the best she’s ever had.

Hungrily, she grabs your hand and urges it between her legs and your fingers are barely inside her before she screeches, tossing her head back and–– 

“Get up on the desk,” you say, interrupting her. “We’re not finished.” 

But she can’t stop. You go to withdraw your hand and she digs her nails into it, shaking her head firmly and stammering, “ _No_ , please.” 

You ignore her and tug your hand back anyway, skin tearing under her nails. She bites back a cry and, seeing she has lost, weakly pulls herself up onto the desk and falls down on her stomach, awaiting the final two lashes. 

_Crack_.

“Nineteen.”

You reach forward and drag a finger down her spine. She shivers. You slip a finger over the blood on her back and inhale deeply, the sight of it, bright against her white skin, tantalizing and intoxicating and utterly distracting. Your hand, slippery with the coppery wetness of her blood, finds itself cupping her core, and she arches off the table on all fours, pressing eagerly into it. You allow her to ride your fingers before you edge one, two, then three inside her, exploring the soft tissue you find there, mingling the moistness of her blood and her arousal. When the pressure inside her builds and she begins moving faster and more intently over your hand, you thrust your fingers in and out of her, rhythmically, matching the pace she sets, and soon she’s making a string of inhuman noises as she comes closer and closer and–– _Crack_.

“ _Twenty_!” she screams, gasping as her world explodes and an electric crackle of pleasure ripples from her center, causing her whole body to tremor uncontrollably against you. Her insides contract around your hand and she frantically rides out the waves of her climax, terrified that, at any moment, you’ll pull away. 

But you’re content to let her finish, because, “You learned your lesson. You’ve been a good girl, Lana. And good girls get treats,” you grunt, as she rubs your hand raw. You twist your fingers inside her and after a moment she slows her pace, stops altogether, and collapses, heat radiating from between her legs and vibrating all the way to the tips of her fingers and toes. You pull your damp hand from her and hum contentedly as you bring it to your mouth and suck at the cocktail of blood and sex that soaks it, deciding that perhaps this is one of your favorite human flavors––shame, pain, heat, and want. 

Lana rolls off the desk and stumbles toward her underwear, collecting it from the corner of the room with the intention of putting it on, but her hands, still shaking, fumble awkwardly, and she can’t seem to stabilize herself long enough to get anything accomplished. You snort at her and with a snap of your fingers, her clothes are back on as if nothing had ever removed them. She stares at you, clinging to her sweater, and asks, faintly, fear hanging on the tiny dregs of her voice, “May I go now?”

You cock your head to the side with a pout. “So soon? Well, I suppose a nice bath treatment might help with those nasty gashes.” You smile as the color drains from her face. “Tell them to turn it up an extra ten degrees,” you add, shimmying back into your robes. Once your veil is securely in place and you’re presentable for the oafs that are supposed to maintain order in this place, you hang the whip back up in its place in the cabinet and clap your hands together. “Oh, and Lana?”

She looks at you hollowly. 

“No more cucumbers. You want pleasure, you know where to get it.”

It’s an open invitation and she responds by slamming the door shut on her way out.

But you’re triumphant, because on the other side of the door, you can hear the darkness inside her savoring its first taste of evil––and it wants more.


End file.
